


To Give Yourself To Him

by coloursflyaway



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: D/s relationship, Dubious Consent, M/M, Psychological Torture, Sensory Deprivation, Set after season one, eventually leads to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1255210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is locked up, but that does not mean that Hannibal is anywhere close to finished with him, so when the other loses all hope he makes sure that once again, he is the only one Will can rely on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Give Yourself To Him

(1)

The door slides shut, and Will feels nothing. Had anyone told him about this, he would have thought he’d be angry, furious even, maybe desperate, maybe just so holding on to the brink of sanity, but instead, there is nothing, a calm, almost soothing absence of feelings, which mixes with the faintest sense of betrayal.

(2)

In his first night in prison, Will does not dream of Alana, not Jack, nor his dogs or a life spent here, locked up in a cell without a chance to escape; he dreams of Hannibal standing behind him, so close that Will can almost feel the warmth of his body through his orange jumpsuit.  
_Let go_ , he whispers into Will’s ear, a voice laced with an accent he still cannot place and a tone so soft and seductive it makes him shiver, _you want to, I know you want to, let go._

(3)

No one visits for a day and a half and Will is impossibly glad for it; the last encounter he had with Jack is still haunting him, the disbelief in the other’s eyes, how helpless he was and how helpless Will felt. But when one of the guards do tell him someone has come to see him, it’s the one person he desperately wants to see and yet makes him feel sick whenever he thinks of him.

Hannibal is collected and cool, his hair slicked back and the faint beginnings of a smile curling his lips; he has won and Will has lost, and he can feel the knowledge seep down into his bones, cling to his blood cells, tint his vision and change him forever. He wants to ask why, but then Hannibal says, “Hello, Will.”  
And Will, without wanting to, without thinking, greets back, finds that even now, they are still _them_. Why he is so surprised, he does not really know, because even when back in Abigail’s kitchen, disorientated and scared and oh so helpless, they had been them, Hannibal circling them, seducing him, taunting and teasing until he felt both lost and found.  
He expects that now too, but no words come. Hannibal just lets the hint of smile blossom and bloom into a full one, and Will wonders just what kind of crazy he must have caught not to be disgusted by the other.

(4)

Alana comes by the day afterwards, pale and looking as if she was about to break the very next moment, and Will wishes he could touch her, could hold her and soothe the worry lines on her forehead, the dark shadows under her eyes. She deserves something far better than he could ever provide, someone not just loving, but strong and unbent, and he has known it for far longer than he let himself realise.

She tells him about his dogs and mentions the investigations with not a single word, and through that, tells Will all he has to know. There was a tiny, almost unnoticeable spark of hope still left in his chest, hardly strong enough to even flutter and beat strongly enough against his ribs and heart to make Will notice it, but when Alana has to leave ("Only fifteen minutes, Ma’am, I'm sorry, I don't make the rules"), he feels its absence.

 

(5)

Will spends the rest of the day lying flat on his bed, trying not to let even one thought penetrate his mind. It does not work.

 

(6)

Days blur together by now, only kept apart by meals which Will sometimes eats, sometimes just looks at, the lights which go out at night and are turned on when the sun rises. If he wasn't insane already, he would go mad now, because without another person to talk to, another case to solve, another murderer to let into his mind, there is nothing Will can concentrate on; all that he has is himself, and it is a punishment more potent than any other he could think of.

And it must be that why he shoots up from his bed when one of the guards says something about a visitor without even thinking about who the guest might be. Alana, he hopes, maybe Beverly, or even Jack, who wants to tell him that his situation is even worse than he thought, but neither of them walks through the door, comes to stand in front of his little bird cage. It's Hannibal instead, who looks like the devil and yet unchanged, and for the first time since he was locked up in here, Will can feel the flare of anger he was waiting for, hot, sharp tendrils of pure fire curling around his limbs and mind, replacing his blood with molten lead.

"Hello, Doctor Lecter", he says nonetheless, not being able to bear the thought of letting Hannibal speak first again, and the other one just looks at him with mild curiosity, like a scientist at a lab rat, a man at a pet, and WIll realises that he most likely is nothing more than that to the man he has almost called a friend.  
"Hello, Will", Hannibal returns the greeting, his voice as smooth as ever and his eyes as cold. "How are you today?"

It's a question he has started some of their chats, or therapy sessions or conversations or whatever Will should call them now, with; they are familiar and yet burn through him like acid; for a moment, Will hesitates and wonders which answer would come closest to hurting this monster disguised in human form in front of him.  
“Alive.”

 

(7)

If three or four days pass until Beverly comes to see him, Will does not know, just like he does not know if it matters. She looks as if she had not slept for days, and Will wonders if that might be true, if they are all searching for evidence for or against him, and if it’s a good or a bad sign that Beverly can hardly look him in the eye.  
The team sends their regards, she tells him and Will thanks her, and hopes that the fifteen minutes will pass quickly, for her sake. They don’t, and he can see her try so hard to be normal around the broken, helpless mess he has turned into and it pains him more than he had ever imagined.

Before she goes, Beverly turns around and looks at him, really looks for the first time.  
“I’m sorry”, she says, and Will believes her.

 

(8)

At night, when he lies awake and cannot sleep, Will wonders if maybe, he has done all the things they accuse him of after all, if he is really beyond hope; but then he remembers Abigail’s face, her bright blue eyes, remembers Georgia and her cracking, hoarse voice when she asked him if she was alive, and can’t believe that he could have harmed either of them.

 

(9)

Months pass in what seems like the blink of an eye, some days spent alone, some filled with psychiatrists, some with visitors, some with interrogations, and then it’s the day of the process and Will has not slept a minute.

There are reporters all around, and although there are police men who try their hardest to keep them away; by the time Will has reached the building, the flashes of the cameras have almost blinded him. He’s too anxious to be angry about it, only wishes he could make out Alana’s face in the crowd, someone from his old team, at least once before they all have to testify against him.

 

(10)

He only sees them in court, all pale and all trying so hard not to say what they think is true, and Will wishes the flashes to blind him once more, just so this won’t be the last memory he has of them; Jack sunken into himself, Alana’s skin looking so thin as if it was about to tear with every movement of her pale lips, Beverly clawing at her own palm, Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller looking both lost and as if they could not believe their own thoughts.  
And then there is Hannibal, who looks distraught and sounds like it, too, and Will has to bite his lips until they bleed to make sure he does not lunge at the other.

 

(11)

They declare him guilty, and no one even pretends to be surprised.

 

(12)

The cell is the same and yet feels different, colder and still more like home – Will wishes he knew just when he had accepted this as his fate, even while knowing that it never belonged to him, but to another, one who still walks the city as a free man, still kills and tortures and serves his prey as dinner, but when they lock him in and leave him, he figures that it has stopped mattering months ago.

 

(13)

It takes four months until the visits start getting more irregular.  
Jack comes by to tell him he’s sorry for breaking him (Will only nods because he does not know how to react), Beverly to try and cheer him up, once even dragging the other two with her, who have a much trouble to look at him as Beverly has herself. Even Alana has the same problem, as if she was afraid of what she could find in Will’s eyes, but always covers it up with a smile, no matter how forced.  
He doesn’t blame them.

 

(14)

Six months, and then the visits stop almost completely, but while the other’s just stop coming, one by one, Alana makes the effort and tell him so. She’s still pale, but looking better (and Will still wants to kiss her, starts to suspect that there will never be a time he doesn’t), and her knuckles are white around the handle of her bag.  
“I’m so sorry”, she starts, and her voice is steady and soft and Will knows how she will continue before she can say another word. “I still believe that it wasn’t _you_ who did it, not who you are now, I do, but it’s just….” Alana takes a deep breath, and although she is not quite close enough for Will to be sure, he thinks he sees tears in the corners of her eyes. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t think anymore, I can’t work, I can’t sleep; all of this is eating me up from inside. And you have to believe me, I wish I was strong enough to keep this up for you, but I’m not.”

By now, there is a soft, stinging burn travelling from Will’s stomach up to his throat, choking him, but he tries not to show it, just like he tries not to show just how much he will miss her, her smile and the way it lights up her eyes, her voice and the way she says his name. He wonders if Alana still has feelings for him, or if they have died in that courtroom, if she wishes they had tried how they would have worked out of if she is happy that they never did.

“I’ll still try to stop by occasionally”, she says, and Will realises that he has missed half a sentence, maybe more. “This isn’t goodbye forever.”

(She never does come back, only sends a postcard from time to time, and Will has never expected anything else)

 

(15)

After that, time stops. There is nothing to distinguish one day from another so Will stops trying, most days does not even bother getting up from his bed, because his cell is too small to do more than walk five steps in one direction and then turn around, and because even the smallest movement seems to be impossibly difficult. He thinks of Abigail more often than not, and the memory of her, such a bright, young, misguided girl, still hurts as much as it did the first day.

And something happens he never would have thought possible; he, who feels panic clutching at his chest when he thinks about being around people, gets lonely. It’s not the gentle, almost unnoticeable hint of lonesomeness he has felt before, but a bone-deep longing for some sort of human contact, which is more than the few words he shares with the guards sometimes, the need for someone who does not look at him with disgust written all over their face.

 

(16)

It’s sometime after midday when Hannibal comes, stands in front of his little cage without a warning, without giving Will a second to breathe to prepare himself. He looks exactly like the last time Will has seen him, hair slicked back and suit impeccable; the smile on his lips looks empty to Will and yet he isn’t sure if the emotion that makes his heart clench is disgust or relief.  
“It’s been a long time”, Hannibal says, and his voice sounds as cold as his smile looks. “How have you been, Will?”  
_Broken_ , Will wants to say, maybe _lonely_ , maybe _cold_ , but he says neither; he does not think to know what gives the other satisfaction anymore, but he does not want to take risks (when he sleeps, he dreams of killing Hannibal as often as he used to dream of kissing him before this had happened). So instead, he says, "Alive."

And Hannibal, who is still infuriatingly well-composed and cool, chuckles in the back of his throat; makes Will realise that at least he remembers their last encounter as well as Will does.  
It is insane, but that is what he is, and knowing that he has affected the man, who has turned his whole life upside down, dragged him out of his shell just to crush him beneath his feet, leaves an almost sweet taste on his tongue.  
"And I am glad about that", Hannibal answers, and against his knowledge, Will believes him. "Whatever it is you think of me, I have always been your friend."  
The words make Will laugh, a bitter, hoarse sound, which reminds him of just how long it has been since he has used his voice for more than a few, softly uttered words. It's a mockery, can't be anything else, and it hurts more than an insult ever could, because Will can remember the time he would have believed, would have clung to the promise the words hold as if they were the only things that could still keep him afloat.

(He remembers the time when he thought that maybe, the older man could give him what Alana never could, too, the shared glances and the strange force which always seemed to push them closer together)

"Are you, Doctor Lecter?", he asks, keeps his voice mocking and light and unaffected, or at least tries to, because Hannibal has never let him see a glimpse of his own self, so Will won't give away another one of his without being forced to. "I never knew. Or is it that, what gives you joy? Thinking of me in this cage, locked up, and far beyond anyone's reach?"  
It's so hard to read him, always was hard but now seems to be even harder, but there might be a glint of something like emotion in Hannibal's eyes, flaring up only to burn out as quickly as it appeared. "It does not give me joy, Will", he answers smoothly nonetheless, and Will thinks that maybe, it was just a trick of his desperate, depraved mind, "But this is for your own good, even you have to see it. Just think of Abigail, of Georgia, of Marissa..."

Anger rears its ugly head in Will's chest, and he cannot help it; steps forward and clutches at the bars, his voice a vicious hiss he has never heard before when it leaves his lips. "Don't you dare even mention her name."  
And Hannibal just smiles, a cold, impersonal curl of his lips, but there is amusement in his eyes, and it takes a moment, maybe two until Will understands why - it's because Hannibal can still get under his skin, is there permanently like an itch he keeps on scratching but cannot get rid of, and has shown the other that much.  


(17)

When Hannibal leaves, still collected and victorious, Will feels even emptier than before.  


(18)

Again, the days start blurring together (Will tries counting them but always fails, no matter how many lists he makes) and Will starts to read, every and anything they let him have, children's books, novels, travel diaries, it doesn't matter as long as he has something he can do, can put his mind to rest in a land far, far away from his cell.

It must be the prison directory who lets them know, but after a week or four, his old team, whose faces are slightly blurred around the edges already when he thinks of them, starts sending him books; some come with a few words and the very best regards written on the blank first page, some are plain; some good, some boring, but Will reads all of them, again and again.  


(19)

At some point, when Will has stopped even thinking about seeing anyone ever again, who is not staff, who is not another inmate, who is not a psychiatrist he does not want to speak with, Alana sends a postcard. It's a pretty thing, a beach and a blue, blue sea, which reminds him of her eyes; he asks the guard who shows it to him if he can have it, and they let him tape it to his wall. If it cheers him up or makes everything even worse, Will can't say for sure.

  
(20)

That night, he dreams of Alana, on whose cheeks the sun has left a soft, pink blush; who is laughing and joking and dragging him into the sea with her, and he wakes up with a smile that does not even last a second.

  
(21)

And Hannibal comes again, as unexpected as the last time, and still looking the same; at first Will isn't sure if what he sees is real or if he is still asleep.  
"Good evening, Will", he greets him, and Will does not even make the effort to get up, stays seated on his bed, his knees drawn up to his chest. "I am very sorry I could not make it before, I was busy."  
He might expect an answer, but Will does not give it, just scoffs, even if a small, miniscule part he wants to rip out of his body with his bare hands, is happy to just have someone who still remembers him. "I brought you something. Do not worry, I checked with your psychiatrists, they do not mind."

Against his will, he is interested, even more so when Hannibal opens the one single drawer which still connects him with the outer world, and puts something inside, pushes it closed so Will will be able to take it out. "But I am afraid I need to hurry back, I am having a friend over for dinner." His lips curl upwards, and Will wants to rip the smile off his face. "I hope you do not mind. I will try to come back sooner than last time."

And that is it, nothing but three sentences spoken, and then Hannibal has turned around and left him to his own devices again; part of Will hopes that he will never return, part of him hopes he will. But no matter which part has him in its grasp right now, it makes him get up only minutes afterwards, walk over to the drawer and pull out a package, wrapped in dark red paper. It's a book, a guide to fishing, and Will is not sure if he should feel mocked, or if there is another message hidden beneath the cover, the detailed illustrations.

  
(22)

He reads until they turn out the lights, and still is not sure.

  
(23)

The visits get more regular; at first they are so far apart that Will cannot make out a pattern, but then the time between them gets shorter and shorter, until Will starts finding back into a rhythm, finding back into time. It’s a week between visits now, seven days he can tick off on his list, and oh God, he hates Hannibal, hates him with a burning passion, but still finds himself looking forward to the other’s visits, just because they are something to break apart the eternity he is spending in here into smaller, more bearable, intervals.

There are six small, crooked lines on the sheet of paper Will uses for a calendar, which means that Hannibal has to visit today, and it is absolutely disgusting how much better the thought makes the day seem. But apart from a distraction, Hannibal often brings books, brings news from the outer world, which apparently has moved on without him, and even if the stories hurt, they bring a small amount of relief; it’s more important that they are happy than that they are happy with him.

And time passes, hours upon hours trickling away, but there is no guard coming to tell him someone has come to see him, no sudden movement in the corner of his eye to indicate that Hannibal has arrived without a warning, like he does so very often, and although he does not want to admit it, least of all to himself, Will starts to become jittery, cannot focus on the pages of his book, because something is wrong, wrong, wrong.

(If he paused a moment to think about it, he would disgust himself, because he never meant to become this dependant on anyone again)

And then, when he is in mid-thought, mid-sentence in his book, the lights are turned off, with a click and a shout of a guard, and Will isn’t sure if he isn’t losing his mind once again.  


(24)

It's shortly after dinner the next day when there is a movement outside of Will's cell, heavy footsteps and then a knock on the wall beside the bars. He looks up and hopes to find Hannibal, but instead it is one of the guards, a tall, dark-haired man with a face that is just slightly too soft, too gentle to be considered frightful.  
"Someone here to see you", he huffs, and Will nods, tries his hardest not to show that he is on edge, still confused about a broken pattern that has only been established a few weeks ago. The guard leaves, and for the longest time there is nothing, no movement, no journalist, or reporter, or overly ambitious trainee from the Academy to ask him questions about his childhood, but then he hears footsteps which are too heavy, too sure to belong to anyone but Hannibal; when he looks up from his book this time, his eyes find the broad form of the older man.

"You didn't come yesterday", he says before he can stop, curses himself only a moment afterwards, because Hannibal does not need to know just how much Will is relying on him once again. So he bites his lips, hopes that the other will not take notice of this slip of his treacherous tongue, but of course he does.  
One eyebrow rises with surprise, and to Will, it looks almost genuine, almost as if he could believe it. "You noticed", Hannibal says without a greeting, something he has never done before. It's strange, and makes Will believe his surprise even more.  
"I did. I don't have many other things to focus on in here after all, have I?", he responds, still does not rise from his half-sitting, half-lying position, and tries to make his voice sound as uninterested as he wishes he was. "You made sure of that." That, though, does not surprise Hannibal at all, because it's a topic they discuss almost every time, because Will needs to hear the other say it, confess it, finally make him believe that it was never him who committed all these horrible crimes (for in the darkest, most secluded parts of his mind, there is still a shadow of doubt left, which he cannot seem to get rid of, no matter how much he tries)

"Oh Will. We both know that is not true."  
It's not a satisfying answer, but as good as the one Will expected to get, so he leaves it at that, does not question it further; it would not change a thing. "Did a case keep you busy?", he asks, and hopes he does sound angry, but not too eager; since Hannibal has started visiting more often, sometimes, ever so often, telling him snippets and bits of cases he is working on with the team that once was Will's, he can see why the other enjoyed their chats before. It's the chase without the responsibility, and entrapped in his little bird's cage, Will finds himself yearning for it.

There is a look in the older man’s eyes which Will cannot quite read (why he even tries anymore, he isn’t sure), but he takes a few more moments until he answers, slowly, as if deep in thought. “It did”, he says, and Will holds his breathe, because he knows that there is more to come. “So busy, in fact, that I have only a few minutes to spare. But I still wanted to bring you this.”  
He puts a book down into the drawer, pushes it closed. “I promise I’ll make sure no week passes until I can come by again this time.”  
Hannibal’s lips curl into a tiny smile, almost too small to notice, then he turns around and walks away, leaveing Will more confused than before.

  
(25)

It's poetry this time, a beautiful, leather-bound book with golden letters adorning its back, and Will puts it aside without reading a single word.

  
(26)

No matter what the other promised, Will fully expects a week to pass until he sees Hannibal, since that seems to be the way of things, but instead the guard shows up again two days afterwards, when Will has lost himself in a tale of sisters and mystical creatures, and this time, Hannibal is only two steps behind him, not taller than the guard but still looking like it, his posture self-assured and his eyes clear and cold when he watches the other man open the door of Will’s cell.  
It’s something which has happened only a few, precious times, apart from the fifteen minutes he is allowed to spend in the shower each morning, and Will cannot tear his eyes off the guard’s hands, the key, the door, which slides open with a creak that makes Will’s skin crawl in the best way.

“Thank you. That would be all.”  
Never before has Will heard anyone dismiss a guard so easily, but there is a certain sense of natural dominance tinting Hannibal’s words, and so the guard does not even question the order, just leaves, and although the door is inexplicably open, Will finds himself looking at Hannibal instead, whose face betrays no emotion. “Would you like to go on a trip?”, he asks, still calm, still collected, as if he was offering another book, and Will desperately wants to ask what Hannibal did, who he lied to, who he bribed, threatened, killed, but he cannot bring himself to do so; instead he just nods, gets up, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he returns the smile the other gives him.

  
(27)

He hasn’t seen the sky in far too long; the second Will takes a step out of the door, ignoring the glances of the staff, he takes a deep, deep breath of air. This won’t last for long, he knows it, because Hannibal would never ever take the risk of letting him run, so he is determined to make the most of it now.  
The older man leads him to his car, which he used to know so well, and lets him crawl onto the passenger seat; still, it is only when Will cannot make the building out in the back mirror anymore that he dares to ask.  
“What did you do so that they would let me go?”, he asks, and watches Hannibal, who does not look back. It's a good thing, because like this Will can concentrate on the clear lines of the other’s jaw, the sharp angles, and remind himself once again, that although Hannibal is the only one who seemingly has not forgotten about him yet, he is the reason why the others started to forget in the first place.  
“I told them I was your psychiatrist”, comes the answer a few moments later, tearing Will away from his thoughts and plunging him into a whole pool of new ones.  
“Are you?”

This time, Hannibal turns around, only for a second, but their eyes lock and they are them again, even if just for a moment.  
“Was I ever?”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


End file.
